She tried

She tried to tell

They would not listen

There not listening still

Perhaps they never will

Chrome

For chrome to chrome

John Clare Stokes 

What of our time behind this glass lens? In faded yellow boxes the life and times set down in vivid saturation, of finest grain, the slow fade at once setting in, even as the child took the first step. The chrome captured it faithfully, just as we saw. What of our time upon this acetate? This veiled dwelling, this inner lens desperate to find focus upon that home beyond this ever fading chrome. 

Mow time

 Mow time

John Clare Stokes

The hand of my old friend Bob

The high wheel mower wouldn’t  start

The grass just grew taller

It always will

I’m to the point of the end of push mowing

My one acre becoming too arduous 

Suppose I need that electric rider after all

And my grass just grows tall.

The post wars again

You think you had a winner

But as usual

It’s not

I do not know what it takes

But it matters not

It’s time to mow

Here we come

 First day

Here we come

Walking down the street

John Clare Stokes 

My first day fifth grade

Went off without a hitch

Made friends with a fellow

Named Freddy Fitch

His daddy owns the A&P

My Teacher is Mrs Turner

She had us hide beneath our desks

In case of a nuclear war

Met two twins named

Stuart and Stephen

They are quite mod

Their daddy is Winston

And he’s the professor of 

Science at Asbury

I hope I fit right in

I couldn’t decide whether

I’d go as Robin or Bruce Wayne

But in the end

Decided upon Davy Jones

Of the Monkee’s you see

I think it was a good decision

This girl April asked if I’d 

Walk her down the street to Girl Scouts

All the way to the first Baptist

Protect her you see

Just in case some Penguins

or Jokers

Lay hidden

In the beautiful Kentucky 

Blue grass.

It’s going to be a good year.

Stairway to haven

 Stairway to haven

Johnclarestokes 

There are stairways in my mind I climb

Places I can yet go time after time

Where once inside I can for a spell reside

By the familiar comfort of place abide

Draw again upon the lessons learned

Give pause to the incessant worldly yearn

Align for the time with the sweet repast

Taste the savory preserves that last

Hear the creaking steps upon heart pine 

Know forever this haven I shall find.

Luther Ray climbs the steps at Pilgrims Rest

And today is his brothers birthday who

yesterday climbed those steps

Jimmy

 Jimmy Boykin Stokes

August 13,1941

August 12,  2022

Jimmy was one of Meme Clara’s favorite relatives, my fathers half brother 18 years younger. Jimmy and his brothers William and Billy, his sister Mary, would spend summers with us in Sopchoppy when they were teens. 

Being so much younger, they were as Memes own children. 

Jimmy fell from a ladder in June of 2022 pruning a pear tree at his home in Hattiesburg, Mississippi and never recovered. Only his sister Mary remains, in an advanced state of dementia.

BTS

 BTS

It was a mixture of dread and anticipation as we pulled on our stiff dungarees, the excess length, for expected growth spurts, cuffed up to the knee. Finding that home room in a hall of chaos before the second bell was dreadful, before the days of orientation. And only knowing who you would have in your class when you scanned the list on the door, or your teacher, if your friends were with you, or if you'd be assigned a seat near the one you secretly admired was all consuming.

It's a wonder we ever made it out of elementary, we didn't dare ponder the dread of middle school, the thugs from across the tracks, the prison life conditions. For now we had found the homeroom and our only aim was not to do anything to cause anyone to laugh or point our way or call upon us to say, who dressed you in those ridiculous dungarees?

Age 9

1964

Bluefield

 There are places I remember

My mother’s parents home in Bluefield, West Virginia at the base of the East River Mountain on Cumberland Road. It was moved several years ago for a road widening across the highway. Fond memories of picking cherries out front, gathering raspberries on the hill behind the house. Playing in the basement, my sister cooking on Mamma’s little play stove that actually worked. Playing football with the Thompson twins across the road, going to the Danleys dairy next door, catching lightening bugs in the lush grass, seeing my cousins Donna Lynn Puckett and David Orander. Great days!

Faith in Frosty

 Frosty 

john clare

the day we placed our

faith in Frosty 

little Bobby asked for a sober mommy

pretty Ann for a warm home

Johnny not to feel so alone

Jane just for easing granny's pain

Paul for a family not foster again

they came one by one

sticking on their dreams

sad to stick one's faith

on temporal,frozen things

but what are the children to do?

When the God of snowflakes

is replaced

by a melting man

soon the birds to drink again?

In turn

 In Turn

My mother was a teacher. 4th grade mostly. A good teacher. In my biased opinion,  the best ever. For that is what she aspired to be since graduating from Northfork High in West Virginia, and going on to Asbury College in Wilmore, Kentucky.

There she met my father, attending on the GI Bill

after WW2, sitting in the semi circle, soon to marry by her sophomore year, to become a future preachers wife.

But she never gave up teaching. Every place the preacher was assigned, she was quick in June, the moving month for Methodist ministers, to get on with some school, with precious little time to set up her room by August.

And so she taught, and every where she went, former students would see her, and tell her, she was their favorite teacher. She even, up until her death in October of 2017, was corresponding with a student from her very first class in Kentucky.

She made an impact on so many. 

Enter her son John. He struggled between everyone saying he should become a preacher like his father or a teacher as his mother. He attended Asbury his junior year, with thoughts of graduating and going on to Asbury Seminary across from the semi circle, even finding someone like his mother to hold hands with and take along the journey.

But it wasn’t to be. An F in Spanish crushed his hopes and he returned to Florida, to work at the local hospital in Williston in maintenance and lament. 

It was his father who suggested, why not attend Florida Southern, a Methodist affiliated school, and we can get a discount. So in the summer of ‘77, the preacher-teacher attended summer school, repeating his junior year, his failed class Spanish, making a C.

By now, the artist decided he would teach. He enrolled in the teacher program. In his senior year he was assigned to the new Lake Gibson Junior High for his internship in Art.

His mentor was a Jewish man, quite hostile to Christianity. His students in turn were hostile to art and him. The classes were mostly glorified study halls with breaking up fights. 

When it came time for John to take over his classes, Weinstein was glad just for the respite.

John made a valiant effort. But he determined he was never going to teach again. At least junior high.

And he didn’t. He later turned down his first offer after graduating to teach Art in Monticello, his old best friends dad, Mr Bishop, being the superintendent. 

He got into retail instead. 

Years passed.

One day a letter came. It was from a young man in Daytona named Greg. Turns out Greg was the quiet boy in one of his classes at Lake Gibson, who did so well, especially the stained glass project.

He thanked John and told him he was the best teacher he had in his entire school years.

He wasn’t a preacher.

He wasn’t a teacher.

But he reached one.

Listen up

 Listen Up 

I’ve always been the quiet one

Mostly did all the listening 

Knew I wasn’t the smartest one

When it came to conversation 

The world was full of

Those who loved to speak

Continually carrying on

And I would listen

Can’t really say my quiet

Served me well

Still see myself as rather failed

Didn’t obtain wisdom

Certainly not wealth

Not much to show for

Being a listener

Other than

Putting too much down

On paper

Nancy

 With Nancy

Can you imagine

Holding her D850

With the 500mm f4

With the tc1.4lll

Looking at Jaguars

From a boat in Brazil

She would say

John

Hand to me the Nikon 

And I would

And I’d then say

Nancy

When go we to 

Costa Rica

And Nancy would reply

Soon John

But first

You must stay and

Hand the Nikon to me

Yes Nancy 

I see

John would blithely reply.

A play upon Nancy Elwood the photographer who is in Brazil now and soon venturing to Costa Rica with said equipment sans me.